


Mental

by orphan_account



Category: Lake Placid (1999)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-13
Updated: 2003-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:59:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-movie. Hank has a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mental

I can’t believe I went into the water for that fucker. 30-foot crocodile not 15 feet away. Jesus. What was I thinking?

It’s not Hector Cyr who’s the Mental. Or maybe we both are.

We are all so fucking lucky to be alive. Jack Wells and me letting our better judgment be overridden by pleading, pretty eyes - not the same ones - Jack was head over heels for the girl from the museum.

It was Hector I noticed. Hard not to. He seemed to go out of his way to piss me off. He insulted me, embarrassed me - from the moment we met, practically. But in his Mental - sorry, *eccentric* - way it didn’t seem personal. I don’t think he knows how to relate to a person in a normal way. Anyone else after doing that shit to someone would steer clear. Not him - he invited me back to his tent to ‘educate’ me on crocodiles. Not in a condescending way, either.

Single-minded. That about describes Hector Cyr. Also, fat rich nutfuck whacko about as grounded as free pigeon. His own words.

It was Hector’s pleading eyes that I gave in to about the croc. Risked all our lives. I could justify it all with the Miracle of Nature crap that everyone else seems to buy, but really I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if the monster was 150 or 1000 years old. It killed humans. My deputy.

Still, it’s over now. The croc’s on its way God knows where. As long as it’s not in my lake, good riddance. Wells and the girl are still in town, I think, celebrating being alive. Together. They’ll be gone soon enough. Like Hector.

I went with him to the hospital. He babbled most of the way. The paramedics thought it was the drugs. I coulda told them that’s just the way he is. They stitched him up no trouble, the other croc didn’t get much of a hold, thank god. The nurse shooed me out when he got drowsy. Needed rest she said, and he kept looking at me with those dark, intense eyes and trying to babble at me; the anesthetic slurring his speech, not making much sense anyway. I had to pry his fingers from mine to leave.

But when I called the hospital after I’d finally got the damn reports written up, they told me he’d left. By his own steam, so they couldn’t stop him.

He couldn’t get away fast enough, obviously. Least he could have said good-bye.

A day later, here I am, slumped in front of the TV as usual, channel surfing as usual. The empty pizza box on the table isn’t going anywhere, or the beer cans. I suppose I should get up and chuck them in the trash, but it's too much effort. I’m tired to the bone.

There’s a knock on the door. Can I be bothered to get up? It’s late, too late for visitors. Okay, whoever it is pretty insistent. Fine. One of the perks of being the local sheriff is you’re never really off duty.

It’s an effort to get up, but this late it’s probably important.

Fuck. I don’t believe it. /I thought you left/, I say stupidly. He grins. /Not yet/ He breezes past me, into my home. I swear it doesn’t even occur to him that he might not be welcome.

/We have unfinished business, don’t you agree?/

/What?/ I must have had too much beer, my tired brain can’t keep up. I watch his eyes sweep over the room, the remains of my dinner, the infomercial on the box, the overall shabbiness of my home. I expect some derisive comment.

/Thank you/ he says simply but with the air of someone making a grand gesture. It doesn’t piss me off the way it would have a few days ago. I understand him now. It’s who he is.

I’m not sure what he’s thanking me for in particular but I don’t want to deal with it right now. He’s too overwhelming in the confines of my living room. The room seems smaller, less air somehow. /You’re welcome/ I say. I’m still holding the door open.

He looks at me. Finally I close the door. He’s obviously not going anywhere for the moment. I’m not sure what to do, to say.

/You saved my life/

/Ah/ My chest tightens with fear all over again at the reminder. I don’t know what to make of the confused jumble of emotion he inspires in me.

And suddenly he’s standing in front of me. His hands are on my shoulders. His eyes (such dark eyes) stare intensely at me He’s too close, I can smell expensive aftershave (what does he need aftershave for?) The heat radiating from him is intense.

I try to step back. His hands tighten. He’s embracing me, his hands sliding around my shoulders, moving over my back. I tense. His head is on my shoulder. He sighs, heavily, and rests his weight against me. This isn’t right. I can feel the panic start to rise. I open my mouth to say - something - but what comes out is only a whimper. He lifts his face to mine /Shh/.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. What is he doing here? To me? I’m so tempted to give in, to accept what he’s offering. Is it comfort? It feels like more than that, but how can I know? I’m a small-town hick to him, he’s made that pretty clear. Is this some sick game?

He’s still staring at me. I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. Something like disappointment crosses his face and he drops his arms. I realise I’m still tense, indecision freezing me in place. He starts to turn away, his shoulders slumping. He still hasn’t said a word. That’s not like him.

/Hector?/ He stops but doesn’t look at me. Slowly I raise my arms. (what am I doing?) I’m hugging him. It feels good. The world hasn’t ended. He relaxes against me. He says something, but it’s muffled against my chest. /What?/

/Wanna mate?/

I should be shocked. I should be outraged. I should reject him utterly. Throw him out of my home. I don’t move. I’m not even surprised, I think with mild surprise. I think of the blatant way he pursued my (female) deputy.

/I’m fat/ is all I can think of to say. (we’re still hugging)

He looks up at me. /So?/ he says. He seems not to remember.

/You said it/ The feeling of humiliation has faded somewhat. It’s true. How many times have I promised myself to do something about it?

He shrugs. /Sorry?/ he offers. He shifts against me. I become aware of his erection pressing against my hip.

And my own.

We tumble to the couch; kissing, stroking. It’s awkward; we have to squirm around to get comfortable. Hector’s obviously in no hurry, he teases me. He’s - playful. Mumbling about what he’s gonna do with my ‘big cannon’. The urgency has hit me hard, he restrains me, calms me, it is he who is in control of this. And when he finally maneuvers himself on top of me, and takes me inside of himself, it is me who is taken: overwhelmed.

It takes me a while to wake up. When I do force my eyes open (why am I on the couch?) he is sitting in the armchair, reading. He raises a bottle of imported beer to his mouth.

I make some sound.

He looks up from his book and smiles at me. Involuntarily I smile back. (he’s still here)

/I hope you don’t mind/

Mind?

/I thought I’d stay with you while I’m in town/ Suddenly he looks uncertain. /If you don’t mind, that is. Usually I stay at hotel of course, where there’s room service, and maids/

He’s babbling again, like I realise he does when he can’t find the right words. I’d like him to stay. I tell him so. /How long are you here?/

He shrugs.

I wonder how long it will be until the next adventure takes him away. Maybe he’ll ask me to go with him.

Maybe I’ll go.


End file.
